


The Beast

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mind Palace, Past Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a dark beast that lurks outside Sherlock's mind palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the spur of the moment while dealing with my own beasties. This is unapologetically sappy towards the end. I claim no great insight into the scary mind of Sherlock, but this exercise felt good. Any mistakes are my own & thanks for reading!

There is a dark beast that lurks outside Sherlock's mind palace. It hunkers and sulks, trailing its long black tail through the moat outside. It smudges its dirty paws against the gleaming bricks of the palace when it dares to come close enough. It snarls and waits.

Most of the time, Sherlock has good defenses against the beast. Its enemies are complex codes. It's repulsed by difficult murders that take days to solve. Sherlock is closer to happy when the beast is at bay.

But there are dark days, days when no matter how long he scrapes at his violin, the beast gets closer. It grows, rising, until it stands before his palace. Needles stand in its broad back, punctured through the thick fur to sway like deadly quills. It becomes infinitely patient in those tight times, when it knows that soon Sherlock will stoop to a conversation.

When finally Sherlock throws away the violin and John has gone to bed hours ago and he's curled upon himself on the couch, the beast comes closer. It grows slim and civilized, leaning its great back against the walls of the palace.

 _If_ _only you'd let me in. We could talk properly then._

Sherlock insists on sitting behind the parapets, back turned to the beast. He knows he shouldn't speak to it at all. He stays quiet. Mostly, he lets the beast do the talking.

_We used to be such good friends. Don't you remember what good friends we were?_

Sherlock stays silent, but the beast can hear the creaks in the ramparts, loosening their tight hold on the great mind within. It examines its sharp claws in contemplation, sensing victory.

_We can talk about whatever you like._

He knows that if he meets its eyes, it can take over for a time. Sometimes he lets it happen. The beast uses his mouth to say sharp things that excite them both. They have the power of knowing exactly the right thing to say to destroy, clever them. But then he's left to deal with the aftermath. The first time he let the beast have at John, they thrilled when the perfect words slid between John's ribs to his most vulnerable places.

John's look of disappointment should not have affected them, but the sting of shame made Sherlock retreat and he pushed the beast out of the palace to sulk in the moat. Sherlock did some sulking of his own and John had not spoken to him for days. That was a long time ago.

Now, John knows the warning signs, the danger nights and the black nights. He knows when Sherlock lets that extra bit of acid seep into the edges of his words and he says goodnight, goes upstairs. More recently, Sherlock wishes he would stay.

The beast has been outside since he was a little boy. He remembers school days when he would let the beast in all the time, back when he didn't even know he was thinking in a palace. It was just his imagination back then. When he didn't know how to deal with something, the beast would heel to his call and they would bite together. Loath as he was to admit it, he was frequently not sure how to handle things back then. The beast was his friend; it made him smarter. It made him stronger. When others around you are weakened by your words, it's hard not to feel strong.

He soon came to realize that the beast could not be let in all the time. It prowled and swished its long tail when he was just discovering the work and it became an annoying distraction. He started constructing barricades to keep him out. He needed calm more frequently, as he learned that manipulating people with cleverness was more entertaining than striking them in the heart so directly. He grew to like the subtlety of poisons in the ear, as opposed to the blunt ax of outright decimations. The slow burn of solving a person's complexities to get what he wanted proved more mentally stimulating, for as short a time as it took him to figure a person out. As he aged, the time grew shorter and shorter.

  
The beast grew larger and larger.

As the strangers in his life grew more hateful towards him, the beast stopped being so cutting. The few times that Sherlock would speak to it, it would promise comfort and he was gasping for affection, even if from his own mind. When the whir of the hard drives and servers inside the palace walls grew to an unholy buzz, he would hop the wall and sink in the black mud to his knees, the beast curling around him in silent companionship.

Sherlock could lose himself for hours, spinning in the dark, feeling the creature wrapping itself tighter and tighter around his torso. When he's digging his fingers into the slime at the bottom of the moat, it whispers to him. It tells him how easy it would be to stay in the dark, to let it devour him. He could rest here, beneath the murky water, where all is still.

Eventually, a composition or experiment tempts him away, he crawls out of the depths and the beast lets him go. It knows that maybe the next time, or the next, when it asks, Sherlock will stay.

The last time he came close to accepting, he'd been forcibly separated from the beast by Mycroft and the most discrete medical facilities Britain could offer. He didn't exactly regret that time, but he knew that if he ever jumped the parapets again, he might not come back.

Now the beast stretches its legs to stare over the top of the wall, great snout snuffling in Sherlock's curls.

_How can you think with all this noise?_

Sherlock looks down to the rest of the carefully compartmentalized palace grounds below him. The walls he sits atop are stuffed with rooms of information, broom closets filled with the faces of people he met twenty years ago. There's a room stacked to the ceiling with half-finished concertos, one filled with barking dog breeds, and a cupboard of all the different perfumes and their unique smells that his mother kept on her vanity.

His palace has grown very large and every brick purrs like a fine motherboard. He glances to the east where he's begun constructing a new wing, filled only with information about one person. He's thinking of calling it 'Hamish Hall.'

_What's wrong?_

_He'll never live there. I can gather all the information I want, but it will never be enough._

_You should stop building that wing._

_I know._

He does know.

_What's the point in that?_

What's the point in anything?

He can feel himself being slowly dragged over the wall and he's too tired to care. He locks his eyes on the unfinished wing. Bricks are stacked next to a card catalog that holds every one of John's different smiles. He has plenty of drawers left to fill.

There's a neat stack of plastic containers with the exact amount of ingredients to make John's favorite type of tea. He tried to burn the folders that held the hateful faces of John's ex-girlfriends, but he couldn't get rid of it so easily, the betrayal still a wound to be salved. It sits smoldering next to a gilded book filled with John's childhood stories he's told Sherlock.

But John's not there. He's not even downstairs in the real world. He's sleeping, or texting his next date, or making plans to move out.

_Enough._

Sherlock nods, ignores the claws digging into his heart as he's scraped across the bricks.

_It's never enough._

“Sherlock.”

He jerks and blinks. John stands beside him, concern in every careworn feature. He wears armor, polished gold, with a plain sword slung at his waist. Sherlock admires that the metal matches John's hair, and doesn't scold himself for sentimentality.

A huff of rancid breath hits Sherlock's cheek and he turns to see he's balanced on the ledge of a turret. The beast clings to the side of the building, long body stretching into the enticing darkness below. Needles are burrowed in Sherlock's chest, above his heart and he sways with the pain of it.

Both John and the beast watch Sherlock closely.

“You've been sitting here in the dark for six hours.”

John sounds quiet, cautious. Never scared.

_You've had enough. Take another step with me. You remember how we used to feel. We can feel that way again._

John takes another step closer.

“I made you some tea.”

He has a hand on his pommel.

_It's so quiet down here. You'll never have to deal with the idiots of the world when you're with me._

“Sherlock.”

John touches his cheek and Sherlock is back in their sitting room. John is crouched before him, palm warm against his chilled skin. He finally meets John's eyes.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

He says nothing.

“Look, I know it's not your best night and you'd probably like to be left alone, but you've just been sitting here and staring. And you just.”

John drops his hand and makes to stand. Sherlock touches his fingers to his wrist before he can go.

“Just what?”

John stares at him hard for a moment and Sherlock suffers his silence.

“You look unhappy.”

_Wouldn't he like to know why._

Sherlock's tongue grows heavy and he knows the beast is about to speak, send John away. He snaps his teeth and growls.

_Enough._

John startles but doesn't pull away from Sherlock's grip. Instead, he drops sideways to the couch, one leg slung to the floor and watches Sherlock.

“I wish you'd let me help. Whatever's happening.”

_Of course he can't help. He's the source of your misery. It's easier to live without him clouding the waters. In all of your work, he'll clutter every corner._

_I would die without him._

He's the reason to stay.

He lifts John's arm and pushes him backwards until he's settled in the crook of the couch. John's eyebrows rise in alarm, but he lets himself be arranged. Sherlock then proceeds to fit himself under said arm. There's not enough room for them, but John braces his one leg against the rug and shifts so Sherlock can curl his legs up. He knows John has questions, but he offers no answers yet and he appreciates John's deep well of patience. They sit in silence for long moments.

Sherlock waits for the beast, but the longer John holds him, the further afield the beast is set. When he uses his thumb to rub slow circles on Sherlock's wrist, the beast is completely banished, howling in distant betrayal. Sherlock ignores it, noting the tension uncoiling from his belly in wonder, and tilts his head up slightly to press his nose to the dip at the base of John's throat.

He feels more than hears the quiet intake of breath at his boldness, but to John's credit, he doesn't stiffen or show any normal signs of wariness. He places a palm over John's heart, remembering the armor he saw atop the turret. He can be brave, too. He pulls to the side and presses a soft kiss to the leaping pulse beneath his lips and pauses, waiting to see what comes next.

John does nothing for a few breaths, then removes his arm from Sherlock's shoulder, pulling up him upwards until he's leaning on one propped arm, half on top of the smaller man. They study each other. John's eyes prism into another shade of blue that Sherlock can't recall seeing before and he tucks away the color in a box in Hamish Hall.

John's hair is not quite as golden brilliant as in the palace, but it's so much more interesting this way. With the streaks of white and faded brown, Sherlock could spend hours documenting each strand. He realizes he's not quite meeting John's gaze and pulls his attention back to the serious face below him. For once, Sherlock feels at peace. But, like always, he waits for John to catch up.

They sit in quiet contemplation of each other. Sherlock keeps his mouth shut and lets himself be studied. John leans forward quite suddenly and stops centimeters from his lips. He keeps his eyes on John's face, his own breath coming faster before he realizes John means for him to meet him.

John is giving him an out, a way to brush this off. Or a challenge.

One of the best things about John Watson is that there's always at least two options about him. Sherlock is never sure which is the right answer. Usually, it frustrates and fascinates him in equal parts, but tonight, he lets his mind go calm.

He closes the distance between them with a chaste press of mouths. Sherlock pulls back and breathes the first breath of his new life. He starts a new document cataloging the seconds since he kissed John, every moment precious and worthy of recording.

John is looking down, pulling at his bottom lip with two fingers before he glances up again. When he does, his face breaks out into one of his broad smiles that takes up his whole face, the one that Sherlock put first in his filing system, as it was the most important.

John is happy.

Sherlock can feel his own face shifting into an expression that's not been used often and he doesn't know what to call it. It satisfies John, who pulls him back down under his arm. He presses a slow kiss into the curls at the crown of Sherlock's head and sighs deeply. He speaks very quietly.

“Is that all it was?”

Sherlock gropes behind him on the couch and finds the remote, passing it to John. He flips on some late night movie, and shifts himself to the side to accommodate them both on the couch. Sherlock closes his eyes when John scratches leisurely between his shoulder blades and tunes out the movie. He revels in the warmth radiating from his sun, his center, his reason to stay.

When next he paces through his palace, quickly sorting through each room for the problem at hand, he allows himself a second to glance in the new hall. Amongst the growing construction, a scabbard leans against the doorway, casually waiting to be picked up. He smiles as he rushes to the dialect ballroom, pleased that his palace has lost its lonely chill.

 

 


End file.
